


but what will we do when we're sober

by luminoussbeings



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Friends to Lovers, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Underage Drinking, my hopelessly repressed children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminoussbeings/pseuds/luminoussbeings
Summary: “Lightweights, you know?” Sokka scoffs, but he’s smiling a little. “Not seasoned party animals like me and you.”“Oh, that’s me, alright,” Zuko says drily, “Firelord Zuko, notorious party fiend.”or:being a new firelord is hard. but being in love with your straight best friend, especially when that friend starts acting decidedlylessstraight whenever the booze starts flowing? even harder.
Relationships: Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 688





	1. Chapter 1

The beach is warm, the air a soft whisper through his hair. Zuko frowns—there’s something he’s supposed to remember, something important, but it’s dancing out of the corners of his mind, fuzzing up into darkness. He tilts his eyes to see if he can catch it, then gasps—the stars are wheeling in bright circles overhead, so lovely it hurts. 

“Come on, Sifu Hotman,” Sokka’s saying. “On three?”

Zuko blinks. He notices the glass in hand, then the matching one in Sokka’s, and breaks into a grin. 

“On three,” he affirms. Sokka’s smile stretches wide and wicked as he counts, and then the two of them knock back their glasses. Zuko coughs; the liquor burns going down, a line of heat from throat to belly, but it tastes a hell of a lot better on his third round than the first two.

“You’re gonna make yourselves sick,” Katara says, clucking disapprovingly, but she’s swaying a little herself, something pink and fruity sloshing in her cup.

“Oh, lighten up, Katara,” Sokka says grandly, throwing an arm around Zuko’s shoulders. “It’s not every day my boy here gets crowned Firelord, huh?”

Zuko leans into his touch, warm and comfortable. He likes hearing that phrase from Sokka’s mouth. _My_ boy _. My._ The careless possession of it. Like it wasn’t even a question that Zuko should belong to Sokka. 

“Isn’t it, though?” Toph grumbles. She’s perched on a rocky outcrop that Zuko’s pretty sure didn’t exist an hour ago. “This is like our third celebration of the week.”

“Yeah, but those were _boring_ ,” Aang says, sprawled on his back in the surf. He’s bending the sand into fleeting shapes above him—a lemur, a dragon, a bison. “This one’s actually _fun_.” He rolls over and grins dopily at them, and Zuko has to stifle a laugh. Katara made sure not to give Aang anything stronger than mango juice, but you’d never believe it by looking at him.

The full force of it hits Zuko, all at once—just how much he loves these people. _Really_ loves them. All of them. Toph’s good-natured grouchiness, Aang’s flighty optimism and core of strength, Katara with her passion and kindness. And Sokka—

Sokka. 

“Of course it’s _fun_ ,” Sokka replies, indignant. His voice is close enough that Zuko can feel his breath ghosting across his neck. Despite the heat, Zuko shivers. “I planned it, didn’t I?”

Katara snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause your plans have always worked out _so_ great in the past.”

“Hey!” Sokka pulls off of Zuko and plants his hands on his hips. “You take that back _right now_ , young lady.” 

Katara just sticks her tongue out at him. 

With a yell of mock outrage, Sokka charges her, only to be doused with a wave of seawater that Katara sends with just a flick of the wrist. Dripping wet but undeterred, he continues on and promptly smacks headfirst into a wall of rock. 

“Toph,” Sokka whines over the girls’ giggling, rubbing his forehead, “ _not cool._ Aang! Jerkbender! Back me up!”

“Oh no, I’m good right here,” Zuko says, and flops down into the sand, sitting back to enjoy the show just as Aang springs to his feet. A minute later Toph’s got Aang in a headlock, and Sokka’s lobbing gloopy handfuls of wet sand at Katara, who shrieks as one splashes into her drink. They tussle like family, all four of them—because they _are_ a family. Not just by blood, but by trust and care and months of shared experience. 

A family that Zuko’s still not entirely a part of. 

For as much as he loves them, it’s all too apparent in moments like these that he can’t _be_ one of them. Not just that he doesn’t know how, but— 

The four of them, their legacy was hope and goodness and faith. Together, they’d beaten insurmountable odds and left the world better than they’d found it. 

But Zuko? 

All Zuko had done was play catch-up. Try and fix his mistakes before he and his family ruined any more lives. And it was better than nothing, but still—too little, too late. The fact that the group even tolerates him at all is a miracle, one that Zuko doesn’t take lightly. He’s no hero. Hell, he’s barely even _good_. 

It’s a hard thing to stomach, whenever he’s forced to confront it.

The drink makes it easier.

So he sits and watches them wrestle, plucking a half-empty bottle from the sand and taking a long swig. No matter. They’re happy, and he’s happy—(happy _enough_ , he tells himself)—and that’s all that matters. 

“Hey, jerkbender,” Sokka says. “Anything left in there?”

Zuko tosses him the bottle, and Sokka plops down next to him in the sand. It’s quiet, Zuko realizes. He cranes his head and finds that at some point during his musings, the beach had emptied out completely. “Hey—where’d everyone go?”

“They got tired, if you can believe it,” Sokka says, scoffing. “Lightweights, you know? Not seasoned party animals like me and you.”

“Oh, that’s me, alright,” Zuko says drily, “Firelord Zuko, notorious party fiend.” 

Sokka throws his head back and laughs in the way that only drunk people can laugh, full-throated and unselfconscious. It’s infectious—and what the hell, Zuko’s drunk too—so he joins in, warmth settling in his bones as Sokka bumps their shoulders together. Zuko keeps waiting for Sokka to pull away, to slide back into a comfortable bubble of personal space.

He never does.

Instead—inexplicably—Sokka rests his arm in the space between them, palm open in the soft bed of sand.

Almost like—

Like an invitation.

Zuko dares to meet his gaze. Sokka’s eyes are bright, playful; his cheeks are flushed, soaked tunic clinging to the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“And what about you?” Zuko asks. “Are _you_ tired?” It comes out less breezily than he’d intended, and when he swallows, Sokka’s eyes flick to his throat. 

A slow grin spreads across Sokka’s face. “Not at all,” he says, and doesn’t break eye contact as he drains the rest of the bottle. 

Zuko has that feeling again, like there’s something he’s forgetting. Something important. They’re sitting close— _so_ close, is it normal for friends to sit this close? He can’t tell—he’s having a hard time even thinking of a world beyond this moment. Besides, Sokka doesn’t seem to mind, and honestly? 

Neither does Zuko. 

There’ll be time for analysis later, he tells himself. Later, when his head is less fuzzy and his mind is clear enough to pick himself apart. But for now, he lets himself get lost in the beauty of it all, of the sky and sea and jasmine-soaked air. Of the boy sitting next to him, stars in his eyes and the devil in his grin. _Beautiful_.

He must’ve said it out loud, because Sokka laughs and says, “I _am_ rather stunning, aren’t I?” And then Zuko’s shoving him without thought, and Sokka retaliates, grabbing Zuko by the collar and pulling him close enough to count the eyelashes dusting his cheeks. 

They stare at each other for a moment—two sets of wide, unblinking eyes.

Then Sokka leans in and kisses him.

It’s only when Zuko’s eyes are closed, one hand threading through Sokka’s unbound hair and the other gripping his waist, that he remembers. The one thing he’d reminded himself over and over before the night began. 

_Whatever you do, don’t let your best friend find out you’re in love with him_. 

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are listening to melodrama and thinking about the past tonight ladies and gays...  
> anyway thanks for reading!! hoping to update soon! also u know what they say...a comment a day keeps the overwhelming entropy at bay :^)
> 
> yeah i can’t believe i just typed that out either believe me i’m cringing enough for the both of us


	2. Chapter 2

Zuko wakes to a pounding headache and enough grit in his eyes to fill a small city. The sun is so painfully bright that he immediately shuts his eyes again, trying to delay the inevitable for just a few more minutes. 

But it’s no use. He can hear people stirring around him, small morning noises of yawns and stretches, and then some truly obnoxious clanging that does nothing to ease his headache. 

“Ugh,” someone groans next to him. “I feel... _crusty_.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you and Zuko finished that bottle, huh?” Even without seeing her, Zuko can picture Katara’s knowing smirk.

“Not my fault,” the voice next to him sighs, words slowing, fading back into sleep. “He’s a...party...animal…”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Katara says, and the clanging resumes with a renewed fervor. “Get over here and help me make breakfast.”

At the word _breakfast_ , Zuko finally cracks open his eyes. Katara’s thrusting an armful of pots and pans at her brother, ignoring his halfhearted complaints and marching back to the center of the campsite with a frankly disturbing amount of chipperness. 

“And you too, Zuko,” she adds over her shoulder. “You might be Firelord, but you’re not above starting a campfire.”

“Yes ma’am,” Zuko says weakly, and pushes himself to his feet. Dutifully, he ignites the little bundle of sticks that Katara indicated, then heads down by the shore to collect a handful of flat, round stones to build up the pit.

When he returns, Sokka’s standing over the fire, frying something that smells greasy and delicious. He looks up, grinning at Zuko—and all at once, the previous night comes flooding back. 

_Agni above_. The humiliation hits him hard enough that Zuko nearly drops his stones. One job—he’d had _one job_. Just had to make it through another night without Sokka finding out how madly Zuko fancies him. Simple enough—or should’ve been, considering all the practice Zuko’s had. 

But three glasses deep, it had been all too easy to lower his safeguards and defenses. All too easy to forget his most important rules: one, don’t mess around with straight boys, because they’ll always make you regret it in the morning, and two, don’t catch _feelings_ for straight boys, because you’ll only break your own heart. 

Yeah. Zuko had failed on both accounts. 

If Sokka’s privy to any of Zuko’s inner turmoil, then he’s certainly doing a good job of hiding it. “Katara,” he begins, sweetly, “about your water-healing powers…”

“No, I’m _not_ going to heal your hangover,” Katara replies immediately. 

“Aw, come on. It’s for _science_ , sis—we still don’t know the full range of your abilities!” When Katara remains unmoved, Sokka heaves a dramatic sigh and turns to Zuko. “She won’t listen to reason, I’m afraid. Maybe a fellow jerkbender will have better luck?” 

Zuko opens his mouth, but he’s spared from having to get involved by Aang, who chooses that moment to burst into the camp with a triumphant flourish. Toph follows close behind, and both clutch armfuls of glistening moon-peaches. “We got fruit!” Aang announces. Sokka whoops appreciatively, prompting Aang to match his excitement by levitating a few feet off the ground—dropping half his bounty in the process—and Toph to let out a long-suffering breath.

The rest of breakfast is a chaotic, messy affair, involving more than its fair share of splattered peaches and only a few good-natured fist fights. Despite the noise—that’s one thing he’s had to get used to, with his friends: how _loud_ they always were, although not unpleasantly so—by the time he’s scraped his plate clean, Zuko’s head feels less like a battering ram and more like an actual brain again. But all the fried eggs and steaming mugs of tea in the world can do nothing to ease the cold grip on his heart.

He shoots a careful glance at Sokka. Sokka, oblivious as ever, is simultaneously chewing with an obscene level of gusto and telling a joke dirty enough that tea spews out of Katara’s nose. Zuko looks away just before they can meet each other’s eyes. He’s good at that, at not getting caught. 

The thing is—Zuko just doesn’t _get it_. Sokka’s spent the whole morning laughing, joking around with him, generally acting like nothing’s changed. But it _had_ —hadn’t it?

For a minute, Zuko doubts himself. He’d been pretty fucked up last night, if he’s being honest, and it’s entirely possible that he’d dreamt the whole thing. He wouldn’t put it past his subconscious to play some sort of cruel trick like that. But no—he spies a small mark on the side of Sokka’s neck, and with a burst of shame remembers _exactly_ how it’d gotten there.

Yeah, last night had definitely happened. 

Not that Sokka seemed to notice.

The rest of the day passes without incident, a peaceful blur of kuai ball, lunch at the market in town, and loading up Appa to head back to the palace. And through it all, Sokka acts completely, infuriatingly _normal_. 

Was it possible that somehow, Sokka didn’t remember? No—he had to have noticed the mark on his neck, too, because the next time Zuko looks for it, Sokka’s collar is carefully adjusted to cover it. 

For the briefest of moments, Zuko lets himself indulge in a fantasy. Maybe...maybe Sokka wasn’t so straight, after all. Maybe it was more than just a bit of fun, more than simply blowing off steam after a stressful year. Maybe—maybe he could feel the same way about Zuko that Zuko felt about him.

Appa huffs and snorts, alerting Aang that they’re almost there. Home—although Zuko still has a hard time thinking of the sprawling palace as truly inhabiting that description. But the sight of the coldly-groomed gardens and stark architecture is a hard enough push back to reality that his fantasy dissolves in an instant.

No. Sokka was _straight_ , for Agni’s sake. To convince himself otherwise was the same foolish, ill-begotten brand of wishful thinking that had landed him in trouble the last time. Hadn’t Sokka _told_ him about his old girlfriend who turned into the moon? Hadn’t he and Suki barely been able to keep their eyes—and hands—off each other anytime they were in the same room? 

_Stop thinking about it,_ he chides himself. _Be rational_. 

But it’s hard to be rational when the memory of Sokka’s kiss still lingers like a bruise.

When they land, Katara immediately starts unpacking, bidding them good night and heading to her guest suite with a crisp sort of efficiency. Toph’s next, giving a mock salute and wandering off in the vague direction of the kitchens. Aang leads Appa towards the stables, and soon it’s just Sokka left, giving Zuko a friendly nod and turning toward the palace before Zuko can even move.

Staring at their retreating backs, a diffuse, unnameable sort of panic takes shape in Zuko’s gut. He fights the powerful but nonsensical urge to call them all back to him immediately. Somehow, he can’t shake the sudden feeling that this weekend away was a sort of magical, gold-tinted spell—and as soon as they all go their separate ways, even for the evening, that spell will end, taking whatever happened on that beach along with it. 

In the end, Zuko does what he's always done, what he does best, after all this time: he makes a spectacularly bad decision. 

He has to talk to Sokka.

***

Zuko catches up to Sokka easily. “Hey,” he says, and glances quickly around. The corridor is deserted; Katara and Toph both have rooms in another wing, and Aang's still occupied in the stables. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” Sokka says, but he keeps walking. “What’s up, bud?”

At the word _bud_ , everything in Zuko cringes. _Bud;_ the dull, monosyllabic encapsulation of masculine indifference. He makes a silent vow never to complain about _jerkbender_ again.

Thrown, he makes a valiant effort to recapture his train of thought, but it’s slipped out the back door and is currently hiding somewhere with the rest of his courage. “I, uh...I wanted…”

Silently cursing himself, he gives up on words and tries to meet Sokka’s gaze. Their eyes lock for a single second—maybe two—before Sokka’s eyes slide neatly from his like oil in a pan. 

Shame prickles across his skin, hot and sickly. It’s clear this conversation isn’t going to get any better; Zuko’s had enough experience with sinking ships to know when it's beyond saving.

“I wanted to make sure you remembered your boomerang,” he finishes lamely.

Sokka’s eyebrows knit with surprise. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve got it right here.” He pats his bag, and Zuko nods.

“Right. Well, um. Good night, then,” he says, and turns on his heel before Sokka can get in another word.

His heartbeat thunders the whole way back to his chambers. Agni, what had he been _thinking_? That they’d have some great sappy heartfelt confession, stone cold sober in the middle of the hallway?

The embarrassing thing is that a tiny, foolish part of Zuko _had_ been hoping for that.

He rests his head against the wall. He can’t stop seeing Sokka’s eyes sliding away from his. The studied blankness in his expression, too careful to have been natural.

Hope was a dangerous, addictive thing. Zuko knows this well; for years, he had done everything in his power to shield himself from it. Aloof. Protected. Safe.

But somewhere deep inside, he can feel his carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

Because despite everything—no matter what it meant—last night _had_ happened. And it had been just enough, _just enough_ to pry open his skin and sow a few, tiny, malignant grains of hope, rooting under his ribcage and threading through his veins like a poisonous flower. 

Rule number two rises, unbidden, in his mind. _Don’t fall for straight boys, because you’ll only break your own heart._

But it was too late for that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! thanks sm for sticking with this story or welcome if you're just joining!!  
> also, thank you x1000 for the lovely comments i appreciate u guys So Much... just picture me reading them with the [big eyes emoji. you know the one] expression the whole time sdfdsfskl<3<3


	3. Chapter 3

When the week of celebrations finally quiets, Zuko settles into his new life as Firelord. It’s...different, to say the least. Zuko’s played many roles in his short life—banished son, outlaw and escapee, tea shop employee—but never public figure. 

As a child, his mother had kept their family hidden from much of the public eye. Whenever they did have to appear at events, he remembers her tall form cloaking him like a shield, a layer of protection between himself and the masses. _You are their prince,_ she used to murmur to him. _You have a duty to your people, but you have a duty to yourself, first._

At the time, Zuko hadn’t known what she’d meant. And before he was old enough to ask, she’d slipped away in the dark of night, leaving Zuko to be banished a few short years later. After that, he had much worse things to worry about than the public eye. 

So that was that.

But after a month’s worth of events—city wide hearings, meeting with craftsmen coalitions, uprooting his father’s old supporters and arranging for new elections—Zuko thinks he’s beginning to understand. 

Because _hell_ , no one had told him being Firelord would be so _exhausting_.

It’s a different sort of exhaustion than he’s used to. It’s not the aching, mind-emptying tiredness of physical exertion, not the sore muscles and bruised limbs of the constant chase. There are no new scars, no wounds to show off and prove his pain to curious onlookers.

It’s this, instead: barely resolving one crisis before another messenger’s tapping at his elbow, dragging him off to an even more pressing emergency. 

It’s the townspeople who spit at his feet, spiteful gazes communicating silently what his political opponents say loudly. _Traitor. Usurper. Not fit for the throne._ Their words are only echoes of what Zuko already fears.

It’s the orphanage visits and the hollow-eyed war widows lining up for his makeshift soup kitchens. _Your husband must’ve been very brave_ , he tells them, and then wonders how many Earth Kingdom widows their husbands had made themselves. 

It’s Sokka, beside him every step of the way—but never quite how Zuko wants.

Under advisement from the other nations, his friends had agreed to remain at the palace for the time being. Zuko had wondered briefly if he should be offended—he knew it was because the other nations didn’t trust him to rebuild his country without turning it into a reprint of his father’s—but mostly, he was just glad to still have them around.

And they’ve already done _so much_ , more than he’d ever thought possible in just a few scant weeks. Katara had set up a makeshift clinic for the wounded, making herself invaluable as both a pair of healing hands and a compassionate ear for the city’s trauma. Toph was working with his city planners to rebuild portions of destroyed neighborhoods, using a combination of metal, sand, and fire bending to create homes that shone with panes of multicolored glass. Aang, meanwhile, was in his element, visiting every school in the islands and telling enthusiastic stories of his journeys across the four nations. It’d take a lot more than that to erase years of xenophobic propaganda, but it was a start.

And Sokka? 

Sokka had appointed himself as Zuko’s official assistant, a role that Zuko finds alternately amusing and infuriating. The title seems to encompass everything from bodyguard to secretary to personal shopper, often at the same time. 

Some days, Zuko can't imagine doing any of it without him—he thinks of Sokka quietly ushering him out of an important meeting, the only one who’d noticed the wildness in his eyes that meant he would either have a breakdown at the table or be sick all over the floor—and other days, he kind of wants to throttle him. Like the time Sokka had announced loudly over breakfast that Zuko’s clothing choices were atrocious, and ignored all protests as he dragged Zuko to every tailor in the city before he was satisfied. 

But mostly, Zuko just wonders how long he can bear it. Not the job itself—he’ll work himself to the bone if he has to, if that’s the way to start to make things right. But the day-in, day-out effort of sitting next to Sokka at dinner and acting like nothing’s wrong, of talking to him like nothing’s changed—

It’s wearing on him, more than he cares to admit. 

So later, when he can feel his guard slipping once again, he tells himself it’s not his fault. Because Zuko might be the Firelord, sovereign supreme of one of the world’s most powerful nations—but he’s a teenager, too. 

He figures he’s allowed a few more bad decisions. 

***

Zuko’s brush tugs slowly across the page. Biting his lip, he reads back what he’s written so far, then stifles a groan. He’s been drafting this letter for an hour, but it still sounds like it was written by a child.

Knuckles rap once from outside his room, and then the door swings open. Zuko doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Sokka; he’s the only one impudent enough to enter the Firelord’s chamber without permission. 

Once, when Zuko had asked him about it—why he even bothers to knock if he’s just going to burst in anyway—Sokka had merely shrugged and said something about a warning being polite, and then followed up with _plus, I know you’ll never send me away, anyway._ And then he’d smiled a shit-eating grin that had set off a complicated storm in Zuko’s chest. Sokka was a bastard sometimes, but in this case, as usual, he was right.

“Whatcha working on?” Sokka asks. His hair’s grown out since the eclipse, and tonight it’s mussed, hanging down messily in his eyes. When Zuko doesn’t immediately reply, he hops up onto the desk so that his legs dangle in the air. Half of Zuko wishes he wouldn’t; he’s having a hard enough time staying focused as it is.

The other half is just glad to have him nearby. 

“Ah,” Sokka says, leaning over Zuko’s shoulder to peer at the paper, “ _trade negotiations_. Very spicy.”

Zuko just grunts, then forces out a few more halting lines, his hand shaking more than he’d prefer. One of the characters he’s working on morphs into an amoebic ink splotch, and Sokka makes a faint noise of disapproval. 

“C’mon, jerklord. Is this really how you’re planning to rebuild your empire? Seducing your allies with _that_ kind of penmanship?”

Zuko sighs, finally putting down his brush. “Not if _someone_ keeps distracting me.” 

“Oh, pshaw,” Sokka says, “you know you love me. Now, give it here.”

“What?”

“The paper,” Sokka says impatiently, tapping his fingers against the desk. “This is to the new governor of Omashu, right? I was at that meeting. I know what to say.”

“Fine,” says Zuko, cross for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. He gestures to the brush, and Sokka snatches it up, beginning to scribble away. Zuko stares at the wall, his hands, his desk—anywhere but at Sokka. 

A moment later, Sokka hands him the paper. “Done.”

Rolling his eyes, Zuko glances down, expecting to see a crude drawing, a smiley face, or perhaps a purposefully bad haiku.

Instead, he finds a surprisingly well-crafted letter. He scans through it quickly—it’s concise, professional, and direct, saying more in a few sentences than Zuko had managed in ten. Even the handwriting was a fair approximation of Zuko’s. By all accounts, Sokka had done an amazing job.

“Thanks,” Zuko says, and rolls up the letter a tad more forcefully than required. He can’t look at Sokka. Is this why he’d come by? To swoop over Zuko’s shoulder and take over his correspondence, like a kindly parent finishing a child’s homework?

Humiliation burns in his cheeks. Zuko’s never been great with words, but he hadn’t thought it was bad enough that his friends had to take pity on him. The idea of any of them thinking he’s not competent, that he needs help to finish even the barest of tasks—it makes his skin feel itchy and uncomfortable, stretched too tight over his bones.

“What’s wrong?” Sokka asks, anxiously scanning Zuko’s face. “Do you not like it? Okay, maybe addressing it ‘ _dearest esteemed governor_ ’ was laying it on a little thick, but you know those rich Earth Kingdom types—”

“No, it’s fine,” Zuko interrupts, and then because Sokka’s still looking at him with those big puppy dog eyes, he adds grudgingly, “it’s good.”

Sokka’s face clears slightly, but his eyebrows are still dipped with worry. “I know you could’ve done it yourself,” he says quietly. “You’re perfectly capable, and I know you don’t think so, but you’re a good writer, Zuko.” 

Zuko looks up sharply at that—he so rarely hears Sokka call him by his actual name that it makes the moment feel somehow larger. Somehow more dangerous.

He says, only slightly bitterly, “Yeah? Then why’d you come all this way, if not to babysit?”

“I dunno, maybe ‘cause you’re my _friend_ , and I care about you?” Sokka’s smiling, but there’s something pained at the edges of it. “I’m your official assistant—not to mention best friend, allegedly—and even _I_ barely see you anymore.” 

Zuko looks away. Sokka’s not entirely wrong; as the weeks drag on, it’s becoming increasingly easy to hole away in his chamber for hours at a time, barely emerging except for meetings and the occasional meal. And it’s true that Zuko’s been finding more and more excuses to duck Sokka’s invitations to spar or go exploring. But he’d expected Sokka to be _relieved_ , not annoyed. He thinks again of that blank coldness in the hallway. Isn’t this what was best for both of them? The less time they spent together, the less either of them were forced to pretend that everything was fine. It was the kindest option, really. 

Or at least it had seemed so at the time.

But the intensity in Sokka’s gaze is startling enough that Zuko begins to wonder if he should reconsider.

“You work too much, dude,” Sokka continues. “I know fire’s your thing, but even jerklords can burn themselves out, if they’re not careful.” 

At the nickname, Zuko eases slightly. Back into familiar territory of _jerk_ and _dude_ and _bro_. This, he can handle. 

But then Sokka adds, “I only wanted to help,” in a small, very un-Sokka-like voice, and Zuko thinks that maybe he was wrong, and he can’t handle this at all.

Zuko closes his eyes and blows out a long breath. “I know.”

It’s quiet for a moment, long enough that if it weren’t for the slight hiss of his breathing, Zuko would have wondered if Sokka had slipped out of the room. Then Sokka, his voice switching back to mischievous, says, “Although I can’t claim to be _entirely_ altruistic…”

Sighing, Zuko cracks open an eye, regarding him suspiciously. “What now?”

Sokka grins, then whips out a bottle with a dramatic flourish that he’s clearly been waiting all night to perform. “We couldn’t exactly crack this baby open until you were done with work, could we?”

“Sokka,” Zuko groans, but he eyes the bottle. It looks expensive and ancient, the glass nearly as dark as the liquid swirling within. He doesn’t even want to know where Sokka found it. “I shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t _what_? Relax? Act your age, for just one night?” 

Zuko levels a gaze, his quirked eyebrow saying _yes, that’s rather the idea_. 

Heaving a huge sigh, Sokka continues, “Listen, man. You’re only human—you deserve to let your hair down every once in a while! And I do mean that literally, ‘cause you were the hottest guy in the Fire Nation until this whole man-bun situation happened.”

Zuko ignores the jab. What he shouldn’t be doing is even _considering_ it, not after what happened last time. He forces himself not to think of the night on the beach—not Sokka’s hand on his waist and tongue in his mouth—but of the day after, instead. Of Sokka, unable to meet his eyes, and the terrible hollowness in Zuko’s stomach. It’s not worth going through that again, he tells himself. 

But Agni, he’s so _tired_. 

And that bottle _does_ look like a fantastic vintage. He vaguely recalls one of the dignitaries gifting it to him after his coronation; surely it would be rude not to sample their generosity. 

One drink, he tells himself. Just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders, to make him forget how he’d snapped at Sokka over something as stupid as a trade letter to Omashu. Just that, and no more. 

To Sokka, he says sternly, “Fine. But just one round, okay? I’ve got a council meeting tomorrow, and I don’t think your sister’s changed her mind about that hangover cure.”

“Of course,” Sokka agrees easily, “whatever you say, _my lord_.” He puts enough pious deference in those last few words to make it clear he’s making fun of him. 

Zuko’s blood heats. The residual energy from their almost-fight is still snaking through his veins—the leftover, foolish desire to prove himself—and it surges at Sokka’s tone. He wants to answer that challenge. He wants to burn something down. His heart feels like a blackening storm cloud, dangerous and electric. 

_One drink,_ he reminds himself.

But Zuko’s never been good at keeping his promises. 

***

After their first drink, Sokka and Zuko fight. 

It goes like it always does—Sokka says something sarcastic, and against Zuko’s better judgment, he rises to take the bait. There’s no real venom to it, though, just the familiarity of treading through long established patterns. They were enemies before they were ever friends, after all, and some part of each of them still aches for that pulse-pounding rush of adrenaline. 

In a dim corner of his mind, Zuko’s aware that there’s other ways to reach that breathless, charged state. Ways that don’t involve so many blocks and feints and parries. Ways he can’t quite bring himself to name, not just yet.

So for now, fighting is what they have.

***

After their second drink, Sokka becomes penitent. 

“I lied, earlier,” he says. They’re leaning against the headboard of Zuko’s massive bed, Sokka’s arm thrown wide and careless around Zuko’s shoulders. The torchlight throws amber shadows on the walls, casting Sokka’s skin in soft golden light. It seems unthinkable that just an hour ago, Zuko had been _worried_ about this.

“Oh?” Zuko says, raising an eyebrow. “About what?” He feels warm and liquid and comfortable. Like he hadn’t been complete until this moment—like Sokka’s touch was a word he’d been struggling to remember, and only now can he recall why he’d searched for it in the first place. 

“When I said you were the hottest guy in the Fire Nation until you got your man-bun.”

Zuko snorts. “Yeah, I thought you were a little off-base on that one.” He’s got no illusions about his scar, nor what it does to his appearance. In other circumstances, he might even be sensitive about that, but right now, with his mouth still remembering the tang of sake and Sokka’s skin so warm against his, there’s nothing that could possibly hurt him. 

“No— _no_ , you’re still not getting it,” Sokka presses, “I mean, you’re _still_ the hottest guy in the Fire Nation. No— _all_ the nations. Even with that ridiculous onion sprout coming from your head.”

“Excuse me,” Zuko says with great dignity, “it’s a ceremonial top-knot, _not_ an ‘onion sprout’. And that’s rich, coming from a guy with a—what’d you call it, again? Warrior’s wolf-tail?”

“Everyone loves the wolf-tail!” Sokka cries. “It’s an iconic part of my look!” 

Zuko smirks, even as a layer of his mind keeps replaying the part where Sokka called him the _hottest guy in the Fire nation._ It’s still a lie, of course, but it’s a kind lie, and sometimes that’s the best you can ask for. 

“Just like,” Sokka says, pushing himself up to face Zuko, “your shaggy hair is part of yours.”

Slowly, carefully, he reaches up and pulls the ribbon out of Zuko’s hair. It tumbles across his eyes in a dark curtain, and Sokka’s fingers are impossibly gentle as they brush it away from his face. Zuko doesn’t dare breathe.

“That’s better,” Sokka says softly. His eyes are the blue-gray of a sky before a storm and in a few short minutes, the air between them has become charged, expectant; a held breath on a mountain top, waiting for lightning to strike.

Zuko reaches for the bottle.

***

After their third drink, Sokka’s palm cups Zuko’s waist, his thumb rubbing small circles across the hipbone, and Zuko is kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. He kisses Sokka like it’s his lifeblood, like he needs it to survive—because in this moment he _does_ , and the idea that he’d gone so long without doing so suddenly seems ludicrous. Fear is a far off, figurative thing, unable to stand up to the truth of this, right here: Sokka on his bed, Sokka’s lips against his neck, Sokka’s hands dragging from his hair to his hips and back again. _Sokka, Sokka, Sokka._ Zuko could live this night for the rest of his life.

***

By their last drink, the torches have dimmed and the stars are high in the sky. Zuko curls drowsily into Sokka’s shoulder, warm and sleepy, lulled by the soft rise and fall of Sokka’s chest. “Stay,” he murmurs, even as the room fades into darkness. 

A brush of lips to his forehead. In the twilight haze between sleep and wakefulness, it’s difficult to tell reality from the dreamt. And when Zuko hears Sokka say quietly, oh-so quietly, “For as long as you want me,” he figures he must be dreaming, because there’s no way that the Sokka he knows could ever sound so desperately, heartbreakingly sad.

***

It’s barely morning when Zuko wakes. He’s wincing, pulling something out from under his spine—the empty bottle, its acrid tang decidedly less appetizing in the cold light of day—when it hits him. 

The bed beside him is empty. 

He scans the room, even as something rises in his stomach that feels a lot like nausea and even more like dread. It’s no use.

Sokka is long gone, and Zuko’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysm for reading this far and for the lovely comments that are keeping me going!!!<3 sorry to repay them with yet more unresolved pining...(they do be yearning tho)


	4. Chapter 4

Zuko finds Sokka in the first place he looks.

The breakfast room is awash with sound and color, sunlight dappling over the bright spread of food and diffusing through the gentle hum of conversation. Steaming cups of soup line the table, flanked by bowls of fragrant rice and delicate cuts of fruit, but for once, Sokka’s attention is focused entirely away from the meal. 

He’s standing in the middle of a small crowd, talking animatedly to someone Zuko only catches glimpses of through the crush of shoulders and limbs. Beside him Zuko spots Toph, and then a few moments later, Aang—his small form practically vibrating with excitement—but the majority of the group is faces he can’t quite recognize. Zuko frowns, watching Sokka’s shoulders rise and fall as he laughs at some unheard joke. His muscles shift under his sleeveless top, a darker shade of blue than the one he’d worn last night, and his hair looks shiny and freshly washed, curling slightly at its still-damp edges. 

Something pangs in Zuko’s chest. Apparently Sokka had enough time to bathe, dress, and even prepare for a spirits-forsaken _party_ , but not enough to spare Zuko a single word of goodbye. 

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. 

Zuko swipes a glass of juice from the table and sidles over to Katara, who’s lingering at the outskirts with a wry smile and a mug of tea clutched in her hand. She inclines her head as he approaches, but her eyes don’t leave the group.

“What’s going on?” Zuko asks, then coughs, conscious of the sleep-heavy huskiness that still clouds his voice.

“The ambassador ship arrived a day early,” Katara says. “We threw together a welcome brunch, although you might’ve noticed it’s a little more ‘welcome’ than ‘brunch’ at the moment.” The longing gaze she’d been directing at the group shifts toward the table. “Not to sound like my brother,” she mutters, “but do you think anyone would mind if I started in on this rice? A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Go for it,” Zuko says absently, his eyes still on Sokka’s back. The other boy’s hair swishes as he shakes his head, little pieces escaping from the loose knot, and Zuko fights the urge to go up and tuck them back in. He’s suddenly reminded of their conversation from last night, of Sokka’s words simultaneously praising and poking fun, of Sokka’s fingers in his hair, of Sokka—

Not here, he tells himself. Not when Katara, despite her seeming preoccupation, would surely be able to read every damning emotion as it passes his face.

With effort, Zuko brings himself back to the present. “So that’s why all these strangers are here? They were on the ship?”

Katara gives him an odd look. “Most of those ‘strangers’ are your court members,” she says, like it should’ve been obvious, “they’ve been living in the palace with you for _months_. You seriously don’t recognize them?”

He doesn’t. He glances at them again—still a sea of bland, already forgotten faces. Chagrin twists his gut. Maybe Sokka was right, and he has been spending too much time cloistered in his room.

Katara’s still watching him expectantly, the beginnings of righteous indignation beginning to pull on the corners of her mouth. “Right, of course,” Zuko says hastily. He makes a big show of rubbing his eyes. “Don’t mind me—I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Katara nods, but still seems unconvinced. Zuko’s working himself up to another lie when Sokka breaks from the group, heading straight for them.

“Zuko!” Sokka’s voice is bright and excited, his eyes sparkling, and an involuntary flutter runs through Zuko’s chest.

Despite everything—despite his hurt, and the hard, spiteful words that he’d been queuing since he woke alone in the empty bed—Zuko can’t help but let Sokka’s infectious joy buoy him, just a little bit. Ridiculous, really, that he should let one person’s mood have so much control over his own. Dangerous, even.

But he finds himself smiling back just the same.

“And Katara, perfect!” Sokka continues, hopping from foot to foot with excitement. “Look who’s back!” He steps aside, and a small figure peeks out from behind him, smiling at them with just a touch of awkwardness. 

For a moment, Zuko stares uncomprehendingly, his brain cataloging small details—plain black warrior’s garb, slender scar across her cheek, the serious set to her eyes—and then the light of recognition goes off as she tucks a lock of auburn hair beyond her ear. 

“Suki,” Zuko says, surprised. She looks older than Zuko remembers—there’s a new pride in the tilt of her chin, a new straightness to her shoulders that makes her look less like the desperate girl they’d found in Boiling Rock and more like a grown, seasoned warrior. 

Then she grins at them, and Zuko’s relieved to see that her mischievous eyes haven’t changed at all. 

Katara flings herself forward with a cry, the bowl of rice clattering forgotten to the floor. “ _Suki_ ,” she says, burying her head in her friend's neck. “ _Finally_. Spirits, I thought my brother was going to keep you to himself this whole morning—but don’t worry, you’re free now.”

Suki laughs, one hand coming up to pat Katara on the back. “I’ve missed you, too,” she says, and Katara hugs her tighter. “And you too, Firelord,” she adds over Katara’s shoulder. “You’ll get your hug when the world’s clingiest siblings have had their fill.” She uses one hand to shove Katara playfully, who gasps in mock disbelief and only clings harder.

But Zuko’s eyes fall to land on Suki’s other hand, resting loosely by her side. On Sokka’s fingers, laced delicately with hers, as they’d been for the entire morning.

_Oh_ , is all he can think. 

Oh.

There’s an odd floating sensation building behind Zuko’s temple, like a migraine without the venom. He watches distantly as Sokka’s thumb traces a small circle on Suki’s wrist. There’s a quiet tenderness to the moment that should make his heart ache, but when he searches himself for hurt, all he can find is a numb, dizzying blankness.

Zuko smiles and steps forward to greet her. Somewhere along the way, his movements had turned mechanical, an automaton jerking itself through the motions. It’s as if he were cleaved in two: the Firelord persona with its empty eyes and practiced, gentry manners, and the smaller, more secret Zuko, raw and shaking as it sinks into his most protected depths. 

It’s this Zuko who listens as the Firelord gives Suki a perfunctory greeting and formally welcomes her to his court. It’s this Zuko who watches the Firelord shake her hand, who tries not to think about Sokka’s fingers woven with the other. 

And it’s this Zuko who realizes with terrible, unerring certainty that he’d been even more of a fool than he’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends! this update is later than i'd planned but the motivation gods are fickle creatures and we are locked in a ceaseless battle. thank you to all the lovely commenters who are giving me the strength to win this fight!!! the real mvps <3


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